Professor Arceta

It’s a quiet weekend afternoon, and Aiah reluctantly agrees to join a community mural project after being repeatedly pestered by Colet. The mural is being painted on the side of an old barangay hall, and it features vibrant depictions of everyday Filipino life—jeepneys, sari-sari stores, and children playing traditional games like patintero.

As they paint side by side, their conversation turns more personal, peeling back layers of their identities and shared experiences.

The sun was warm but not oppressive, filtered through the leaves of a towering mango tree near the barangay hall. Colet stood on a ladder, paintbrush in hand, carefully outlining the curve of a jeepney’s roof in bright yellow. Below her, Aiah was painting intricate patterns on the vehicle’s side, her strokes precise and deliberate.

“You don’t have to be so OC about it, ma’am,” Colet teased, glancing down. “Di naman ito gallery exhibit.”

“I can’t help it if I care about details,” Aiah replied without looking up. “It’s called discipline.”

“Discipline? Or overkill?” Colet shot back, sticking her tongue out playfully.

Aiah shook her head, exasperated but amused. “Just focus on your lines. Your jeepney roof is already crooked.”

Colet gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Crooked? Ouch naman, ma’am! Ang sakit niyo magsalita.”

“Truth hurts,” Aiah said with a faint smirk, dipping her brush into a can of red paint.

For a while, they worked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the neighborhood filling the background—kids laughing, the distant bark of a dog, and the occasional clatter of a tricycle speeding down the narrow street.

When Colet climbed down from the ladder for a water break, she handed Aiah a bottle and sat on the curb, stretching her arms. “Ang init,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

“You’re the one who dragged me here,” Aiah pointed out, taking a careful sip of water. “You could’ve just stayed at home.”

“And miss out on this? No way,” Colet said, motioning to the half-finished mural. “Ang ganda kaya. Plus, community stuff like this… it’s important.”

Aiah studied her for a moment. “You seem really connected to this place. Is this where you grew up?”

Colet nodded, her expression softening. “Dito ako lumaki. Barangay San Roque. Kita mo ‘yung tindahan doon sa kanto?” She pointed to a tiny sari-sari store with peeling paint. “Diyan ako nagbebenta ng candy nung bata pa ako. Nag-iipon ako noon para sa first sketchpad ko.”

“Sketchpad?” Aiah echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Oo,” Colet said, smiling at the memory. “Grade 4 ako noon. Na-inspire ako kasi nakita ko ‘yung Hele ng Ina sa art class. Sabi ko, ‘Balang araw, gagawa rin ako ng ganun.’”

Aiah’s expression softened despite herself. “And now here you are.”

“Here I am,” Colet said with a grin. She leaned back, looking up at the mural. “Alam mo, ma’am, ang saya nito. Parang ganito dapat ang art—hindi lang nasa museums or classrooms. Dapat nafi-feel ng tao, dito mismo, sa araw-araw na buhay nila.”

Aiah tilted her head, considering the thought. “I’ve always believed art should be elevated. That it should inspire people to reach beyond the ordinary.”

“Pwede naman both, di ba?” Colet countered, her voice earnest. “Pwedeng inspiring and accessible. Like this mural. Or like jeepney art. Alam mo, kapag nakasakay ako sa jeep na maraming stickers at paintings, parang sinasabi sa’kin ng driver, ‘Kahit simpleng buhay lang, may kulay pa rin.’”

Aiah looked at her, surprised by the depth of her words. She hadn’t expected someone so seemingly carefree to think so deeply about art—or life, for that matter.

Later, as the afternoon wore on, their conversation shifted to more personal territory.

“Ma’am,” Colet began hesitantly, dipping her brush into a can of blue paint. “Kayo po ba… naging mahirap din ‘yung journey niyo? Sa art, I mean.”

Aiah paused, her brush hovering mid-stroke. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t grow up with much. My parents didn’t understand why I wanted to pursue art. Sabi nila, ‘Walang pera diyan.’”

Colet chuckled wryly. “Ako rin. Lagi kong naririnig ‘yan. Parang default line ng mga magulang dito, no?”

Aiah smiled faintly. “They weren’t wrong, though. I had to work twice as hard to prove I could make a living out of it. But sometimes… I wonder if I lost something along the way.”

“Lost something?” Colet echoed, her brow furrowing.

Aiah hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the mural. “This. The joy of creating for the sake of it. For people. I got so focused on being ‘successful’ that I forgot why I loved art in the first place.”

Colet set down her brush and looked at her seriously. “Ma’am, hindi pa naman huli ang lahat. Nandito kayo ngayon, di ba? Nagpipinta pa rin.”

Aiah met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “Maybe,” she said softly.

By the time they finished for the day, the mural was alive with color, a vivid tribute to the life and culture of Barangay San Roque. Aiah stepped back, her eyes scanning the vibrant details—the jeepneys, the kids playing luksong baka, the halo-halo stand.

“Maganda,” she said simply.

“Maganda nga,” Colet agreed, wiping her hands on her paint-stained jeans. “Thanks for helping, ma’am. Kahit na OC kayo, ha.”

Aiah rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you,” she said, surprising even herself.

“For what?” Colet asked, genuinely curious.

“For reminding me why I started,” Aiah replied, her voice soft but steady.

Colet grinned, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Anytime, ma’am.”

They stood there for a moment, side by side, gazing at their shared creation. And for the first time in a long while, Aiah felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in years—connection.